The Rift Between Us
by Weebles the Destroyer
Summary: He had finally reached the command center doors, barely pausing to slam his hand against the palm reader. 'I have to stop him,' Sincline thought desperately, slipping through the doors before they fully opened, 'Somehow…' -A story inspired by a tumblr post on how Lotor came to be as he is and why he was exiled. Takes place during S3:E7-


Hello! This fanfic is based off of a theory I found while reading (stalking) blackmoonbabe's tumblr. So all credit for the inspiration for this fic goes to them. *tips hat*

And Fair Warning: This hasn't been beta read. And it's also been years since I've written anything - so I'm probably a bit rusty.

And a note about measurements of time used in VLD (according to the VLD wiki):  
Tick = a little longer than a second  
Varga = approx. an hour  
Quintant = approx. a day  
Deca-Phoeb = slice of time comparable to a year

Disclaimer - I don't own, don't sue.

Enough notes! On to the fic!

It took every grain of self-control Sincline had to not drum his fingers against the top of the conference table as he listened to two scientists heatedly debate inconsequential points. He was meeting with the highest ranking commanders and scientists in the Empire, trying to come up with a plan on what to do next, on where to move their people to now that Daibazaal was gone. They were all looking to him for leadership; and while he had proven his claim as Zarkon's heir through the rites of combat as tradition dictated, he had yet to reach his majority. And only a few quintants ago he had become the orphaned leader of a homeless people. He looked at his hand where it rested on the polished tabletop, studied the familiar scars and callouses that warped the pale skin. While he had not inherited his mother's dusky skin tone, he still bore a far different complexion than the hues of purple of the pure-blooded Galra around him. As if his blue-gray hair didn't already make him stand out enough… Dragging his blue eyes to the holosheet in his other hand – information gathered with the help of King Alfor on possible new home worlds for the Galra people, Sincline suppressed a sigh. The meeting was suddenly interrupted however when one of the soldiers came rushing into the room, panicked and out of breath.

"Prince Sincline, your Father-" the solider panted, "Emperor Zarkon is alive!" Sincline felt his eyes widen as he and those around him stared at the male Galra in stunned silence.

"Wha…" he couldn't even form words. Disbelief and joy warred within him as the soldier recounted his tale of standing guard outside the chamber that held his parents remains; of his father opening the door and demanding to know where they were, to be taken home. And the last the soldier had seen of him, Emperor Zarkon had been going to the command center of the ship.

Sincline had been almost out of the room before the soldier had even finished, bolting for the corridor.

For his father. And if his father had survived, then maybe his mother…

And for a moment, he had been happier beyond words.

Until the broadcast started.

" _ **My fellow Galra…"**_

Sincline stopped, shocked, staring at the video broadcast blazing across all visible screens on the ship.

" _ **King Alfor of Altea has destroyed our planet."**_

He could feel horror clawing at his insides as he stared at his father's likeness. It was him, there was no doubt, but his eyes…were they glowing?

" _ **He must pay dearly for his crimes."**_

Sincline was running again, this time in desperation, towards the command center. He barely heard a couple voices call out to him as he pushed past groups of Galra, soldiers and civilians, demanding to know what was going on. _'He can't do this!'_ he thought frantically, _'He can't…'_

" _ **Rise up and join your Emperor,"**_

He could feel the tension in the recirculated air of the ship – the Galra were very much a martial people, each individual's place in society was validated or determined by physical prowess and rites of combat. Zarkon had managed to unite what had once been a fractious culture under his rule, igniting an almost fanatical reverence in most of his subjects. And now, it appeared that not even death could defeat their Emperor. He was calling them to arms – and Sincline knew they would answer. With blood.

" _ **Revenge will be ours."**_

He had finally reached the command center doors, barely pausing to slam his hand against the palm reader. _'I have to stop him,'_ he thought as he slipped through the doors before they fully opened, _'Somehow…'_

Having completed his broadcast, his father stood in the center of the command deck, the ship commanders and navigators cheering or roaring their pleasure at his orders. Sincline dragged a hand across his suddenly burning eyes; was it just vargas ago he had been wishing to see this very thing? His father, alive and well? "Well" was perhaps a subjective word, he thought as he studied his father, whose eyes were indeed glowing a bizarre and frightening violet.

"Father!" He tried calling to him, but it was drowned under the flood of other voices in the room. Swallowing, he tried again, using a tone similar to one he had heard his father employ to make himself heard across a large room.

" **Father!"** Of course his voice cracked as it has been wont to do recently, but it still had the desired effect.

The room was suddenly silent as his father lifted his eerily glowing gaze to lock onto the slight figure of his son.

"Ah, there you are." The Emperor drawled and Sincline felt himself tense; while the words were innocent enough, the tone was one he was familiar with. Displeasure.

"Clear the room!" Zarkon ordered, "I would speak to my son privately."

The Galra around them rushed to obey, filing past Sincline towards the main corridor from which he had just entered. When the door slid closed behind him, he saw his father touch the command console and heard locks slam into place.

No one would be interrupting them. Sincline swallowed again, feeling sweat trickle from his hairline down to the high collar of his uniform as he clasped his hands behind his back.

"Father, I-"

"Silence." His father interrupted, and Sincline's teeth snapped together with an audible click. "You will speak only when spoken to."

Sincline watched as his father stalked towards him slowly only to stop several meters away; close enough that Sincline had to look up to meet his father's unnerving glare. Not for the first time Sincline cursed his having inherited some of his mother's more petite genetics; why did his father have to be so tall?

"Quintants. You have been in command for a handful of quintants and I come back to find our home world destroyed. The source of our power, gone." Zarkon was practically growling at him and Sincline could feel the fine hairs on his neck and arms raising in alarm. "Apparently I gave you too much credit in officially naming you my heir."

"Father, Daibazaal was breaking-" the blow took him completely by surprise, driving him to his knees with a cry of pain. Sincline lifted a shaking hand to his face, agony radiating from his left eye and temple. He stared up at his father in disbelief – his father had _never_ hit him. Sincline had been hurt in trainings and combat before but his father had never once even threatened him with physical violence. Zarkon was speaking again, and Sincline tried to focus on his father's words,

"I said _silence_." He commanded, staring down at Sincline as he knelt on the floor, "Daibazaal was breaking apart?" He scoffed before walking away, "I thought you had inherited enough of your mother's intelligence to be above Alfor's propaganda." Sincline couldn't help the flinch that the comment caused. He had never been good enough…for either of them. But Ancients he had tried…

"A few more stabilizers and the planet would have been fine," the Emperor continue on, "but now, because of your failures, we have lost everything. Even my Lion."

Sincline stared at his father, unable to believe what he was hearing. Distantly, clinically, he realized that his father had damaged something in his eye, as he was now seeing two of the Emperor's imposing figure. _His_ failures? Sincline grit his teeth and stood, proud when he only swayed slightly as he got to his feet. He was not above admitting that he had his failings, that he was capable of screwing things up on occasion. But this…this was _not_ his fault!

"No." he whispered.

His father still heard him, turning his head to glare at his son.

"What did you say?"

Sincline could feel something bubbling up inside him; how could he not _see_ what they had done? To their planet, their people, themselves? Off to the side he thought he caught a glimpse of a hooded figure, but with his blurring vision he couldn't be sure.

"This is _your_ fault!" He yelled, fists clenched at his sides, "Yours and mother's! How can you stand there and still blame others for what has happened?" His heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. His father hadn't moved.

"I've seen the scans of the planet, our scientists have seen the scans; everyone agreed that this was the best option. That this was the _only_ option left to us after deca-phoebs of experiments widened the rift, destabilized the planet!" He paused, gasping for breath, terrified of what he was going to say next but know it was the right thing to do. This… _person_ wasn't his father anymore. He was convinced; his parents had died in that rift but something else had come back.

"I can't let you do this Father. I won't let you attack the Alteans; they have done nothing but help us since you and mother…died."

Emperor Zarkon had turned to face him, his glowing eyes were narrowed but a small smirk twisted his lips.

"Ah, so you do have some Galra in there, I had always worried you were too soft, too…Altean." He uttered the name like a curse, and there was a brief pause before he continued.

"You 'won't let' me do this, boy?" His father sounded both furious and amused, "How do you plan to stop me then?"

Instinctively, Sincline knew what this was, knew what he was doing. He was challenging his father. Challenging his right to lead, challenging him for rule over the Galra. Officially something like this should take place in the most public way possible, in an arena for all the Galra to see. He knew if he won that his victory could be called into question without witnesses. However he didn't have time to do this officially, not if he had any hope of saving both his peoples from unnecessary bloodshed.

Sincline knew that he would most likely lose. He was still in his adolescence, he was smaller than pure-blooded Galra deca-phoebs younger and he didn't have their brute physical strength. And his father was practically the epitome of everything Sincline wasn't.

His throat clicked dryly when he tried to swallow as he shifted his stance to one he knew his father recognized. He was no longer standing at attention. His stance was more open, more relaxed; his hand resting lightly on the pummel of the sword that he always wore on him. He had worn it every day since he had won the right to carry a blade. He stood at the ready.

To fight.

His father shifted to mimic his stance, but there was glow in his hand as the Black bayard materialized in his grasp. Sincline had forgotten – no - he had _assumed_ that the bayard would have returned to the Lion. When he was younger he had watched in rapt fascination as this father had practiced with the bayard, and all the many forms and configurations it could make; sword, gun, shield, even a massive mace. Sincline felt his breathe catch in his throat – he wouldn't be able to parry any of his father's attacks, the Paladin weapon would cut through his sword like paper.

The only thing Sincline knew he had on his side was speed; his father hadn't personally trained with him since he was a cub. Even if his father had bothered to watch any vids of his training sessions, he could still take him by surprise. At least once. Sincline narrow his eyes in an effort to get his vision to focus. If he played his cards right…

Once was all he needed.

"You are a young fool." The man that was once his father spoke again, the bayard in his hand warping into a large, glowing blade. "And I will suffer you no more."

Sincline ducked and rolled away from the wave of energy that ripped into the floor where he had been standing; the metal glowing red and moaning in stress. He didn't look; he couldn't risk taking his eyes off his father. With most Galra being such physically large beings, their intimidating size also tended to unknowingly broadcast their impending actions. A shift that told him which direction they were going to move, a turn of their wrist spoke of how they were going to swing their blade. And he had always been good at reading people.

He darted along the outside edge of the command center, using the architecture of the room and occasional console to dodge several more energy strikes. Seeing the slightest twitch of a foot, Sincline barely slid to a halt before the panel of circuitry in front of him burst into sparks, the blade of his father's bayard buried into the wall right where his head would have been. He scrambled backwards in an effort to get some space between them as his father effortlessly pulled the blade from the wall. There were rules when it came to fighting opponents much larger than yourself, chief among them was to keep your distance.

Unfortunately, his father knew this as well and he charged him, quickly eating up the little separation he had been able to gain. Sincline drew his blade and in desperation he stepped forward, under the swing and darted around the Emperor's side, slashing with his blade. However Zarkon had already turned and he managed to block the strike by changing his bayard into a shield at the last moment. Sincline's stomach dropped as he felt the inferior material of his sword fatigue against the glowing barrier. Zarkon was already shifting the weapon back into a blade when Sincline ducked away, feeling a wave of energy wash past him and a pipe that had been behind him burst, spilling clouds of hot steam into the room.

Hearing Zarkon's roar of anger and feeling the steam scald his back and shoulders through his clothes, Sincline used the distraction to duck under a console. Trying to catch his breath, trying to think.

He looked at his sword, blearily eyeing the stress fractures in the metal. He couldn't block his father's weapon, and if his father even remotely anticipated an attack, he could change his weapon into a shield almost instantly. His father had over twice the reach that he did, and untold amounts more strength. Sincline pressed the fleshy part of his palm into his pounding eye socket, willing it to work just a little longer as he leaned his head back against the metal support stand.

"Only cowards and weaklings hide," his father's voice interrupted his thoughts, causing him to jump slightly. He could tell by the sound that the Emperor was back in the middle of the room, waiting. "However, you have lasted much longer than I anticipated." Sincline could hear his father's boots clicking on the metal floor as he walked around the space.

"It does make me wonder though," Zarkon continued, on the far side of the room now. Sincline stepped silently out from under the console, watching his father's back as he moved further away from him. There was no point in hiding anymore, he was already exhausted despite the adrenaline racing through his system. And he now knew what he had to do.

"You have always been a rather selfish boy, why risk your life now for beings you don't even know?"

"I know some of them." His father turned instantly, glowing eyes cutting across the room towards him. "Some of them I even consider friends."

"Alfor's daughter." The Emperor's voice was cold.

"Yes," Sincline responded, although not too long ago he would have vehemently denied it. Allura was almost ten deca-phoebs his senior and had a proclivity for bossiness that could absolutely infuriate him. But she could also be brave and sweet, and she had been kind to him when others…had not.

"And King Alfor." Sincline canted his head slightly, the longer strands of his blue-gray bangs dipping towards his eyes. "He was your friend too. All of the Paladins were."

"Alfor was never a friend," Zarkon sneered, his feet shifting into a very obvious position "none of them were. They were only a means to an end."

Sincline breathed deeply, raising his sword in front of him, both hands on the grip, the burns on his shoulders and back screaming.

"Then for once, Father, you have my pity."

His father charged directly forward, just has Sincline had known he would. Sweeping his left foot back, Sincline raise his left elbow while pulling in and twisting his right, bringing his sword up, tip pointed down into a hanging right guard.

And then a last-tick shift further to his left.

Instead of trying to stop the blow from his father's bayard, the glowing blade was deflected just enough by Sincline's sword to slide past his right shoulder with a scream of tortured metal. Sincline felt the weight of his sword suddenly lighten considerably and he knew it had broken. But his father had over-reached, and Sincline couldn't stop now; shifting his right foot forward, he brought the shortened blade upwards with all his strength. It was a poor position to strike from, and it wouldn't allow for bone crushing force, but a jagged edge of metal into the soft underside of the jaw didn't need crushing force, it needed speed and the correct angle.

Sincline had the speed, he felt the metal dig into flesh.

But the angle was wrong.

The whole fight he'd been able to force his doubling vision to merge into one for brief periods, allowing him to strike, to dodge. At the last moment however, it had blurred and his blade had swung too far to the right. It missed his father's jaw entirely and bit shallowly into the left side of his face, splitting the flesh from just below his lower lip, upwards following the curve of his cheekbone before ending just above his eye.

The next tick Sincline felt unimaginable pain in his right side as his father brought his bayard back, the blade biting deep into his chest below his still raised arm. He was sure that he screamed but it was drowned out by his father's roar of triumph as he pushed the blade further into his son's chest, crushing bones and slashing into the organs beneath.

The force of the sweeping blow threw Sincline back towards the center of the room, where he hit the floor with a wet crunch.

He didn't move.

He couldn't move.

Everything was agony and fire.

Distantly, he heard the click of his father's boots as he walked across the metal floor towards him. Sincline closed his eyes, waiting for the pain that would finish him. Instead he heard a shift of his father's armor and felt one of his father's massive hand threading through his short hair to grab the back of his skull, gripping. Sincline cried in pain as his father lifted his head, twisting his mangled chest, pushing broken bones further into already damaged tissues.

"I just wanted you to know," his father breathed and Sincline cracked an eye open to look at the Emperor of the Galra Empire. He watched in horror as the slash on his face blazed pink for a moment before it faded into a scar on the Emperor's face. His glowing eyes narrowed in what could almost be amusement before he continued.

"That in recognition for the effort you've put into this little rebellion of yours I'll make sure no one remembers your failures. In fact," and here Sincline could tell his father was definitely smirking, "I'll make sure no one remembers you at all. Starting with your "friends"."

Zarkon abruptly let go of his son's head, and with no strength left to prevent it, Sincline felt his face hit the metal decking with another crunch. All he could manage was a strangled gasp as more pain ripped through his skull.

Sincline struggled to breathe as he heard his father walk away, back towards the command console. _'Is he leaving me to bleed to death?'_ He wondered, distantly feeling his body giving out; he was feeling colder, number with every heartbeat. It was bad etiquette to not finish a defeated opponent. _'Why the Ancients am I worried about his damn etiquette…'_

"Sire." Another voice. One he didn't recognize. Barely, he could make out the robbed figure he had thought he had seen before the fight. His father had stopped walking.

"What is it?" He heard his father ask, but he sounded very far away.

"The boy could be useful to keep around." The voice that sounded female said coldly. "It would be quiet informative to see the effects of Quintessence on mixed race beings."

When what she was saying actually registered in his mind, Sincline squeezed his eyes shut and silently begged his father to deny her. To at least let him die with some measure of dignity.

"Very well. Just get him out of here."

Sincline felt long, bony fingers dig into his shoulder, cruelly turning him onto his back. Another hand grabbed his jaw, nails burrowing into his cheeks as she ordered him, "Look at me."

And when he did, he laughed. It was wet, stuttering and broken. And it hurt like the void. But he couldn't help it; the face was different, but he still knew it. Of course his father didn't deny her…

He'd never denied his mother anything.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

He had no real recognition of time after that.

There were long intervals of nothing; a darkness deeper than the void and just as silent.

At other times there was pain. A deep, excruciating burn through his veins made him scream in agony. Only he couldn't scream. He couldn't even move.

And still other times there was sound. Small snippets of conversation. Or observations.

"Subject 492743 appears to have finally healed all previously existing wounds. After the next infusion we will begin testing the speed at which new injuries heal."

"Noticeable changes of physical characteristics in Subject 492743; hair color look as if it is lightening. It is now almost devoid of all color, appearing nearly white." A second voice, "The ears too, look at this still image from a deca-phoeb ago, they appear to be lengthening." The first again, "Hmm, the skin color looks different as well doesn't it? We'll have to take another sample…"

And things continued on in the same alternating manner until…

"Haggar." A voice he hadn't heard in…he wasn't sure how long. It still made him twitch. "You missed a meeting with the commanders today." The voice didn't sound particularly angry. A touch admonishing perhaps.

"My apologies Sire," this 'Haggar' responded. "I simply got wrapped up in an old project."

Silence again. Then…

"Hnn, I thought he died." 'Sire' sounded disappointed that this fact had proved to be untrue.

"Essentially, he did die. This isn't him, not anymore." The female sounded almost proud, "The Quintessence has altered so much of his genetic coding that he would probably have to be entered into the security systems under a different identity."

Another pause.

"Are you planning more testing then?" The male voice asked. 'Haggar' hummed.

"Not presently, no. I believe I've exhausted all the research I can do with him at this point."

"Good, then get rid of him Haggar."

"Sire," a pause, "my magic can do many things, but it cannot prognosticate the future. It might be… advantageous for you to have an heir."

More silence, heavier this time.

"Very well. But I want him off this ship." Heavy steps moving further away, "I don't want some Altean Halfling running around Central Command."

"As you wish, Sire."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Consciousness was very slow in coming.

He felt heavy, as if gravity was pinning his limbs in place and making it feel as though a Yupper was sitting on his chest. It was also…difficult to think. He had a feeling that he was losing vast amounts of time between conscious thoughts. While keeping his eyes closed, he started by wiggling his fingers and feet; slowly, methodically. Something was draped over his chest and legs. A blanket?

When he finally managed to crack open his eyes, he was thankful the room was almost completely dark. Purple lights that ran across the baseboards of the walls were dimmed to a faint glow. Tentatively, without moving his head, he glanced around the room. It was bare; only the bed he laid on and a small table with a single chair occupied the space. Slowly, he raised a hand above him, studying the appendage; why did it look wrong to him? He flexed the purple digits, testing the strength in his grip. Letting his arm fall across his chest, he turned his head to look at the table. Seeing nothing of interest, his eyes drifted closed.

When he came to again, he was still facing the table. But the chair was no longer empty.

A petite hooded figure sat in the chair, watching him with glowing yellow eyes. They watched each other silently for a moment until finally,

"Do you know where you are?" the robed figure, _'Female,'_ he corrected himself, the robed female asked him.

Not quite trusting his faculties to speak yet, he gave his head a small but noticeable shake. _'No…'_

"You are currently on the Central Command ship of the Galra Empire. After the destruction of Daibazaal you were injured in the subsequent war with Altea." The woman responded, she was quiet for a moment, letting him absorb the information. The names she mentioned sounded familiar… _'Planets,'_ some part of his brain managed to supply, _'they are, or were, planets.'_

"Do you know who I am?" He racked his brain, trying match her to the vague images that were floating around his mind. There was nothing.

"No," he finally answered, his voice and throat rough from disuse. "Why...can't I remember anything?"

She studied him, looking satisfied. "I am Haggar – High Priestess and your father's advisor." His father? High Priestess? Of what? "You were mortally injured, and for several deca-phoebs you have been in and out of various cycles of stasis as we made numerous efforts to heal you. We were finally successful." She paused, "It is normal for your memories to be…distorted."

He could vaguely remembered fighting someone, but he couldn't remember who. And then nothing but pain. Slowly he subconsciously rubbed the right side of his chest where what felt like a large scar raised jagged lines across his ribs. The robed female watched the action with interest.

"You mentioned my father…who is he?"

"You are the only child and heir to Zarkon, Emperor of the Galra Empire." She stated in a sort of officious, ringing tone that made his ears ache. Not just his ears, his head felt like it was splitting, but…he could remember some…things. A planet made a red stone, a tall imposing figure telling him to stand up straight, to at least _try_ and behave himself and a woman, with dusky skin and soft blue hair smiling at him. He remembered…slowly, he sat up, the blanket pooling around his waist as he braced himself up. The world spun momentarily and he closed his eyes, taking deep breaths, feeling long strands of hair fall in front of his shoulders. After a few moments the sensation passed and he fixed the figure with a penetrating stare,

"And what of my mother? What of…" he searched for a moment before he found her name, "Honerva?"

"She died." Haggar said bluntly and dispassionately, although she now looked displeased. He clenched his fingers in the sheets on the bed, feeling despair gnaw at him. "She was sick and your father wanted to save her using the Quintessence from the Rift on Daibazaal." He remembered the rift, of his mother running tests and shooing him out of her lab. "But, afraid of the power the Galra's had obtained, the Alteans destroyed the planet before he was able to do so." She was quiet, watching him for a moment before standing.

"Enough of this. Now that you are awake, get up and prepare yourself. You're leaving."

He narrowed his eyes at her trying to process everything at once, "I'm what?"

Haggar tilted her head, looking down at him.

"Because of your failure in the war with Altea, your father, Emperor Zarkon is sending you into exile." She watched his eyes widen with apparent disinterest. "You will have to prove yourself worthy of being called his son by conquering planets in the outlying galaxies in his name. You have one varga to get ready," she paused once more, waiting until he was looking at her before finishing with,

"Prince Lotor."

With that, she swept out of the room with an almost silent swish of robes.

'Lotor' rested his pounding head in his hands. Something about all of this was off, but he couldn't tell what it was. Why had she seemed unhappy that he had remembered his mother? Everything was so scattered and muddy in his mind. Parts of it felt right, but the rest…he could recall an old saying that stated the best lies carried seeds of truth.

He slowly twisted in the bed, the cold metal of the floor sending a bolt of sensation up his legs as he put his bare feet down. He stood gradually, getting a feel for standing on his own again and grit his teeth as he staggered to the table. He balled his fists on the tabletop, looking at the clothing and what appeared to be armor folded neatly there. And at the sword lying next to it.

That…'High Priestess' wasn't telling him everything.

"But I'll find out." He swore to himself, reaching for the weapon. In the ensuing silence, the hiss of the blade sliding free of its sheath was deafening. He studied himself in the reflection on the metal, taking in the appearance that didn't _feel_ like his own – long white hair brushing past his shoulders, stark against pale purple skin.

"Even if it takes me thousands years, I'll find out what you are hiding from me."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

AN: I would like to note that (in my head), Lotor would later find the name "Sincline" mentioned in some of his mother's notes and, feelings a particularly affinity towards the moniker, decided to use it to name the ships he was designing.

Also note: Zarkon's scar. In S3:E7, while Zarkon is giving his Declaration of War speech he doesn't have the scar. As soon as the speech ends, the next frame is a shot of him sitting on his throne (with Haggar next to him) and the scar is in place while Narrator Coran says, "Zarkon had become pure evil." So the timing fit perfectly.

Also ALSO note: I would love feedback on the fight scene. I always struggle to write them and I would love input.


End file.
